


A Matter of Trust

by Winter_Poppy



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Knifeplay, Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 08:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3522158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_Poppy/pseuds/Winter_Poppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows Locke would never hurt her, but she's not afraid. You play with steel because you're willing to get bloody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadcellredux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcellredux/gifts).



> For the 2015 Kiss Battle. 
> 
> Thanks to my beta 0oMooncalfo0 for all her help. All remaining mistakes are my own.

 

"Hope it won't chafe your skin," he says, sliding a finger into the loop and pulling at it. "You're so pale."

"Still too loose," she chastens. His silent hesitance, punctuated by a sharp sigh, brings a wry smile to her lips. "Please, Locke. I'm not some delicate flower." The image of a delicate yellow flower blooms into her memory: the lovely flower Professor Cid had named after her. The thought only widens her reluctant smile, but Celes shakes it off her mind. It will not do to think about grandpa at this very moment. "Too loose, I said. Fix it."

Silence returns as Locke considers her request. The fact that he takes it as a request and not a command doesn't fail to irritate her. In the end he complies, adjusting the knot until it fits tightly around her wrist. Then she hears the cracks of the mattress under his body as he shifts his weight backwards; she hears a long creaaak when his boots make contact with the hardwood floor underneath. His footfalls ring on her ears. Iron-shod soles bite into the planks, drawing woody complaints as they go.

Silence again. Shorter this time. A deep, deep inhalation. Locke's fingers drum against wood: this time a piece of furniture. The chest right beneath the window, judging from the hollowness of the sound and the number of steps separating it from the bed. So, he left it there. It barely scratches the surface of the chest lid as Locke lifts it into his hand. Good, he's walking back now.

"So." He clears his throat. She can picture him standing there before the bed, doing absolutely nothing. There's an infinitesimal squeak as he slowly shifts his weight upon the wood planks, his denim jeans crinkling. "You sure you wanna do this? I mean…"

A sigh springs to her lips, loud and purposeful. "For the umpteenth time, yes." 

That brings him a step closer, but only one. Then he's moving again in the opposite direction. She refrains from asking. Soon the floor is scraped by what sounds like the legs of a chair. Her suspicion is confirmed when the weight of Locke's body is released with a similar but lighter scratching of metal legs against wooden planks. The motion is punctuated by a tiny exhalation, and the rustling of fabric. Celes purses her lips. Locke readjusts his position and toys with the knife. Finger pads swish across the case, his nails drumming alongside.

"I like looking at you like this, you know."

Celes snorts. "I don't doubt it. You sure are taking your sweet time just _looking._ "

Locke fidgets in his seat. The succession of clipped little sounds grates on each of her nerves. Rustling. Scrapping. Squeaking.

"Locke, we've been through this a thous—"

"Do you trust me?"

The question throws her off-guard. If she didn't trust him, she wouldn't have put herself at his mercy. His bandana is wrapped around her head, reducing her world to a splotch of shadows. Its edges are all frayed, and the loosened threads prickle at her cheekbones. It smells like all the smells of the earth, but it's still her favourite piece of cloth in existence. Her arms hang from the bedpost, bound by the wrists. They had decided to start with hemp ropes. It's too soon for chains and handcuffs. But the restraints are _tight_ , she ascertains with a few tentative tugs. Her legs are free, but she could never hope to escape by her own means. Thieves and treasure hunters know how to tie a good knot.

"Just get on with it." Her impatient answer almost catches in her throat. Almost.

"If you're not sure about this, we don't hav—"

"I _am_." Her tone is peremptory. No more objections, it warns. Her patience is wearing thin.Locke leans forward. She can feel the heat radiating off his skin as he looms over her sprawled figure, the sound of his breath ever closer. A dull ache settles between her legs, and she casually rubs one over the other, pressing her thighs together.

"Do you trust me?" he repeats. The tone has changed, though. His voice comes out thicker, huskier. Her heart answers pumping faster, blood rushing to her face and her groin.

It's not a matter of trust. In the military, you learn to trust your comrades first thing. When you're in the heat of battle, that reaction becomes automatic. You instinctively _know_ there's someone watching your back. You don't stop to consider who. You _can't_ stop: not when you're caught in a raging haze of screams and explosions, the smoke of musket bullets and the bone-shattering discharge of Magitek shafts. You learn to function as a team: one mind, a thousand arms and legs and swords. Are your members reliable? Do they like me? Do they hate me? Would they stab me in the back if there wasn't the urgent concern of survival to push them forward? You know you have to keep moving, keep slashing, keep shooting forward, always forward. The enemy up front, your allies on your back. The only thing that mattered was they were wearing the same colours. They were fellows. Imperial Soldiers. Trust was a gross understatement in that context. Heck, she would've trusted goddamned _Kefka_ if the emperor had ever bid her so. She would've brought a dozen squires with her to watch her back twenty-four seven, and at least two vials of antidotes for every poison known to man! ...but she would never have backed away from a battle. She was an ex general of the toughest empire in modern history. She was a former Magitek Knight. You play with steel because you're willing to get bloody.

"I trust you," she replies nonetheless.

It's not what he could do to her body that she fears: _that_ kind of pain means nothing to her. What she truly fears—

And then she hears the clink of metal against metal, and her breath catches in her throat as the blade slithers out of its sheath.

When the dull echo quietens in her mind, she realises she's missed the string of movements that's left Locke sitting beside her on the bed. The soft touch of his hand pins her back to the present moment. Her heart is pounding, beating faster and harder as his hand runs up her leg, teasing the insides of her thighs. His other hand surely must be at his side, supporting his body. She can only wonder the whereabouts of his knife. His hand now presses upon her lower belly. (Did he leave the knife on the bed?) He hooks a finger under the hem of her shirt, and his is touch warm and patient. Loving. (Maybe it's resting right next to her, naked steel neighbouring her vulnerable backside.) The cool air of the room hits on her exposed patch of skin. She stiffens, the rope biting at her skin as she heaves herself. Locke interrupts the process of sliding up her shirt.

"Celes?"

She shakes her head. "Go on."

Chills rain down on her flesh like air kisses. Locke lodges the crumpled garment on top of her breasts, then slips his hands behind her back to unfasten her bra. The prolonged pause tells her that Locke's eyes are feasting upon her bare torso. Subtle wet noises signal the trail of his tongue along his lips. Her nipples harden in urgent response. The dull ache in her groin grows into painful necessity, and she allows herself to squeeze her tights together until it soothes a little. The sharp release of breath from Locke foretells a faint chuckle. Heat bursts out under her cheeks. It _hurts_.

The cold of steel against Celes' skin makes her squirm. It came suddenly, without forewarnings, and wrests out an all-too-honest hiss. He must be using the flat of the blade to tease her. She can almost picture the satisfied grin twisting upon his lips. The smug bastard, she thinks as her teeth worry on her bottom lip. He must be enjoying himself.

She gasps when Locke withdraws the discreet source of her pleasure. She feels him going completely still, waiting for another reaction he must have interpreted as adverse.

"It was good." Her words come out all tangled. Her growing arousal has tied her tongue into a knot—tighter than the one binding her wrists. The crook of her inner thighs is pooled with wet, sticky heat, betraying an obscene squelching noise when she unclasps her legs. "G-go on."

Locke's breath comes ragged. He sucks it in, sharply.

The cold kiss of metal feels almost wet as it trails upon her torso. It wends a path across the valley between her breasts, like a creek snaking down a mountain valley. She likes the cold sensation contrasting to her heated skin. Oh, she _loves_ the cold.

A chill races down her spine. Unbidden. She can't place the source of such misplaced reaction. Yes, she used to love the cold, back when she wasn't able to _feel_ it. When it couldn't afford to _hurt_ her.

She was the frosty general, with ice running through her veins. She commanded the cold element. She shivers into the touch of the blade. Strangely enough, the steel doesn't seem to warm into her body. On the contrary, it is she who's growing colder as the metal travels along her body, pressing itself flat against the contours of her belly. Her lips quiver. Cold. The cold is an old friend. Of course she doesn't fear an old friend.

Her arms are starting to numb and she yanks at her restraints, to make sure they're still there. Firmly cuffing her to the bedpost. Imprisoning her. She could never hope to escape by her own means, she remembers. ( _But I was always ready to accept my fate._ )

Her head snaps upwards, and the sudden sharp motion sends a pang through her neck. The blade stills itself against her navel, sending a ripple of chills across her lower stomach. Locke lets out a short breath, almost a gasp.

"Did I hurt you?"

She rotates her neck to the right, then left, then lets her head hang for a few seconds as the slight throb in her muscles dissipates.

"Locke…"

He leans into her intimate space to listen.

"Don't stop anymore. No matter what I do or say, just don't stop."

His breath quickens in the ensuing silence. "Got the safe word?"

"Yes." She grants herself a moment to consider her next demand. He must've caught her hesitation, because he remains quiet, completely still. "You may…use the edge."

So _subdued_ , she berates herself. She's softened up over the years.

He plays around with the flat side a bit longer, testing his own courage on her flesh. She trembles each time the steel lands upon a spot, but the kisses remain gentle. Brisk, little pecks pelt her abdomen and chest and collarbones, as innocuous as raindrops. When the sting comes, it's as unexpected as the first touch of the metal. Her hiss is sucked into a loud, choked gasp, and she bucks away on instinct. Locke stops before he slips out of the game yet again, but his own hiss is rich with concern and apology.

"Good, good," Celes whispers in encouragement. She drags herself back down, her half-naked body an offering as she lowers her knees, spreading her legs wide and receptively.

Her body still resists the second cut, but she wills herself to lay still. Her sensuous caprice superimposes over that pesky instinct of preservation. Locke will not hurt her, but she's never been one afraid to die. A short nick draws blood beneath her right breast, the pang as sweet as it is merciful. She feels a cold trail careening down her ribcage. (Should not be cold.) The blood tickles along its way. (The tickles turn to shivers.) She draws in a light gasp of pleasure. Locke's weight shifts slightly closer, twisting the angle at which the mattress sinks askew. He's a source of body heat and soft sounds and loving concern and growing arousal looming and flowing and hovering all around her. (A thicker, heavier shadow in her world of darkness...)

She can't make him(them) out, but she hears the voice(s) as clear as the trickle of blood pattering on the (metal) floor.

Her eyes are swollen shut.

Their faces blurry in and out of vision.

They quiver with scornful laughter. Oh how they had laughed!

She'd seen traitors been cashiered and executed many times throughout her career. She knew full well what to expect the next day. She'd be dragged across the streets, hands tied at her back, all the way to the scaffold. They would surely strip her of her uniform in the cell, so she'd more likely have to make the walk of shame in her bare feet. They'd pay an audience to toss garbage and curse her along her path, to be sure. The Empire always liked to carry their business with a proper level of glamour, and she'd rather go out with a bang. A really loud, deafening bang. They'd try to blindfold her, but she'll reject this small mercy, for her dignity compels her to face her fate with eyes wide open. Yes, she'll stare into the public's eye. Her own men. Her comrades. And what will she say? Something meaningful. Her last words ought to be meaningful. Perhaps something dramatic, martyr-like. May the gods forgive you! Or maybe she'll waste her last breaths in denouncing Gestahl and his tyranny. A poignant shout for freedom. Freedom! Death to the tyrant! She'll instigate her former brothers and sisters in arms to follow her example. To take up arms against the bloody oppressor. To betray their homeland, their loved ones, their ideals, deeply ingrained during their mechanical upbringing.

Traitor, they spit at her.

O how the mighty Celes has fallen!

Ah, but doesn't it hurt? Their steel is sharp, but never as sharp as their tongues. She bites down on her own tongue not to cry out and the taste of blood explodes on her mouth. I will not cry. I will not beg. I do not fear death. I'm ready. I'm ready. I'm ready to die for my honour. Her eyelids brush against the press of the blindfold. Lights and shadows glide through the other side of the fabric. Closer, closer. The stench of mould and decay and cheap ale hot and rancid on their breaths. Their guffaws hammer on her ears, her temples pounding. This is what becomes of traitors! The blow explodes into her stomach with raw, animal force, knocking the air out of her lungs. She chokes in a desperate gasp, supping a gush of tangy blood down her throat.

I'm not afraid.

 I will not beg. I will not scream.

 Her blindfold comes off.

She's dimly aware of the fingers working with frantic swiftness on the knot behind her head. She _was_ aware she wasn't hearing Locke's voice and words anymore, but she no longer understood where his presence fitted into the grim scenario of her downfall. As the folds of fabric fall down her face to crumple on her stomach—as his worried face comes into existence before her eyes—as she blinks back the flashes and after-images of her world of shadows—she finally understands.

He's here to _save_ her.

His eyes are as wide and round as the beads threaded round his belt, and there are beads of sweat too, glistening on his brow and cheeks and the bare expanse of his neck. She doesn't realise she's hyperventilating until she attempts to breathe. Locke knocks aside his knife before he leaps towards her shivering form. She flinches at the strident clatter of metal against metal. No, the floor's hardwood. It glimmers under the lamplight, duller than metal. The room smells of pine and leather and sweat and _…_ Locke's hands are soft and reassuring as they cup her chin up, forcing her to lockgazes.

"Hey, it's me. Baby, baby, it's me." He runs his thumbs over her cheeks. They're damp and warm and _his_. "See? It's me. Locke." He nods, prompting her to mirror his gesture. She does, out of inertia.

"I was ready to die," she says in a haunted whisper. "I swear I was ready to die. I never…"

"Shh, it's all right." He scrambles to his knees, reaching up to kiss her forehead.

"I never asked to be saved. I would've died like a true soldier."

"I's all right," he repeats, giving another reassuring kiss to her forehead before leaning back, downing all his weight upon his heels. He squeezes her shoulder, very, very gently, then his attention falls on her wrist restraints. Her arms dangle awkwardly and puppet-like while Locke rubs them along to make sure her blood's still properly circulating. "You're cold." His eyes swing back to her face. "And pale. Gods. You're _too_ pale." He touches a cheek, her forehead, the tip of her nose.

Celes' gaze absently wavers about her restrained body until it catches the red pooling at the minuscule creases of her stomach. Blood has sipped into the thick-weaved fabric of the bandanna, darker, shapeless spots adding richness to the intricate patterns.

"Put that back on," she orders, glancing offhandedly at the discarded blindfold.

She doesn't bother to look at Locke's expression. She can smell his concern. She can smell his fear. But she's not afraid.

"We don't really have to do this tonight," he objects, even as he picks up the garment.

"Now." She swallows. It doesn't taste like blood. "We do."

"Celes…"

"Just do as I say for once!" For the briefest of instants, she's the Imperial General again. The icy thrill of power shakes her to the bone.

"Do it." Celes wets her lips. Her eyes search for Locke's. "Won't you?"

She's no longer a general and Locke isn't one of her troops, but this time she controls her own fate. She's set up the rules for this game and it's over by her command. She only needs say the word. 

Locke sighs, springs out of the bed to retrieve the knife from the floor.

"Still got the safe word?"

But not yet. She's not ready to give up yet. She nods, stilling her head to let him rewrap the bandana.

"One more rule," she says. It just occurred to her, and Locke halts on his way to the proper side of the bed.

"Yeah?"

She points with her chin at his presumed position. "Take off your clothes."

She can almost see the frown deepening in his brow. The lovely confusion.

"You can't see me." He leans over the edge of the bed, surely to set down the knife.

"Just take them off."

He's grinning now, she knows. She even guesses the mock salute he tosses at her prone figure. "You're the boss."

The motion is followed by the rustling of fabric as he shrugs out of his garments and lets them heap at his feet. He kicks out of his footwear as well, not even asking if it's necessary. He won't be needing them until the morning, anyway.

"There." He claps his hands against some solid part of his body. "In my birthday suit."

The slap of skin on naked skin calls forth Celes' smile. Just to tip the balance of power a bit more to her favour, she thinks. For her old self's comfort.


End file.
